Ganymeder

Flashes are read.

Poems are, too.

Friday is here,

so this is for you.

-

School books I’ve read

as hours flew.

My son went to bed

late – nothing new.

-

Harried, I said,

“I’ve got MORE things to do!”

so I took to my bed

with my laptop and brew.

-

My blog needed fed,

but I had nothing new

ready to post. So I said

(for lack of a more descriptive word that fits appropriately in the

‘a’ part of the abab rhyme scheme) that I’m too damned tired to be bothered to

rhyme anymore.

-

*My apologies for the short and silly post, but the first week of school this year has kicked my butt. So I hope you forgive enjoyed this little bit of meta.

**image courtesy of Bigfoto.com

No intruder dared to pass.

*This was taken with my camera phone. Frightening; aren’t they?

“What are you selling again?”

The man with the paunch sagging through his frayed sweater scratched his comb-over and contemplated the stranger on his doorstep. He watched the man remove his fedora, run fingers through his short-cropped blond hair, then replace his hat. “Lightning rods,” he said. He fidgeted with the worn leather satchel.

“That’s what I thought you said,” said Horace, his gaze pinning the younger man like a bug under glass. “You do know this is the twenty-first century; right?”

“Oh, yes,” said the salesman, brightening. “I’m glad you brought that up, sir. You see, some of the world’s great minds believed in the usefulness of lightning rods. Why, Benjamin Franklin invented one! Tesla improved on Franklin’s design and-”

“Cut the crap, kid,” said Horace, turning his gaze upon a falcon that flew through the deep blue sky. “Why do I need one? I’m not exactly living in a skyscraper now; am I?” He gestured to the decaying floorboards of the porch he now stood upon.

“Listen, sir,” said the salesman. “I’m not just selling rods. I’m selling a lightning protection system. You see, the idea is to place these so-”

“Again, kid,” said Horace, eyeing the clear azure beyond the salesman’s head, “I don’t really need them… uh, it.”

The salesman’s face fell, and the older man’s expression softened. “It just seems like you don’t know your market here. I mean, I’m in the middle of nowhere. I’m not living a life of luxury… What made you think you’d make a sale here?”

The young man sighed. “Listen,” he said, blue eyes pleading. “Could you maybe just buy a couple? My old man, he… uh.” His shoulders sagged. “I really need to make this sale.”

Horace sighed, looked up into the heavens, then said, “Family problems, eh?” He rubbed his left eye. Its pupil never dilated, though the sun had retreated behind some clouds. “I know what that’s like,” he said, and blinked. “Tell you what… I have some money put aside. Hell, I’m old. What am I saving for; right?”

The salesman’s face lit up. “You won’t regret it!” he said, pulling a long metal bar from his satchel. “I’ll even install it myself. Cash or check?”

“Oh, heck,” mouthed Horace, fishing around in a clay jar inside the door. “Cash. A check just feels like an unpaid debt til it’s cashed anyway.” He handed the younger man a wad of bills.

“Thank you,” said the salesman. “This’ll make the old man so happy. My first sale!” He smiled, then sobered. “Don’t worry. I’ll install it for you right away.”

“Ah, I have faith in you,” said the older man. “You just take care of that, and I’m going inside to watch my soaps.” He turned his back on the grinning salesman and let the door creak shut behind him.

“Faith,” said the younger man. “If only more people had faith.” His dusty traveling cloak melted into a sparkling white toga, his battered leather boots into golden sneakers that sprouted tiny golden wings. The fedora became a gilded helmet with matching wings. He looked at the roof, sighed, and rose into the air. “Father, don’t you think this is a bit petty?”

Heat lightning flashed, followed by a faint rumbling. The god went about the business of installing the rods without grounding them. “I know you’re competative, but-”

Another flash, another rumble. “Fine, target practice,” grumbled the god. “Have it your way.” He sighed again. “I’m all for pranks, but this? Swindling an old man into making his house target practice? It’s just… such a waste of my talents.”

Rumble.

“Fine, I’ll be home for ambrosia later.” The golden youth picked up the leather satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and leapt from the roof.

From the second story of the farmhouse, Horus sipped his tea and watched the winged figure diminish, swallowed by distance. “I don’t hold it against you, poor lad,” he mused. “No one picks their family.” He touched his eye again, then picked up the pamphlet from the table.

Zeus could play his prank while he was at the museum. The Egyptology exhibit promised to be even more popular than the Greek one, and he had tickets for opening night. He could repair his home when he got back.

Even for the god of a long dead religion, godhood had its perks.

THE END.

*I hope you enjoyed my #FridayFlash. On Sunday, I will post a new episode of the My Writing Niche podcast. In the meantime, have a lovely weekend.

**image courtesy of Bigfoto.com

Those gathered had much longer to wait than any had anticipated.

*image courtesy of Swedish National Heritage Board via Flickr. Photograph by: Carl Curman. No known copyright restrictions.

I must admit to some trepidation when I thought of writing this piece. For one thing, I didn’t want to come across as too snarky, but then again if you don’t like the post you don’t have to read it. Also, there are tons of sites dedicated to how to use Twitter effectively, so anything I post here will likely be the net equivalent of shouting into the wind. However, on the off chance that you might be interested, I will address my top pet peeves about people complaining about Twitter.

1. If you don’t like it, don’t use it.

Seriously. It’s a tool. If you truly don’t have a use for instantaneous communication with people who share common interests with you, then don’t use it. There’s no point in bashing people who find it helpful and enjoyable.

Remember that revolution in the Middle East? The one where people organized by using Twitter? That seems pretty useful to me. Follow news groups to keep up with current events, follow writers to keep up with their latest works, follow knitters if you like to knit and want to find new patterns. But if none of that interests you and you honestly can’t use Twitter, then stop insulting people who can and do.

2. If you are interested in Twitter, take the time to learn how to use it BEFORE you declare it frivolous and without merit.

Too many times people fail to learn about the strengths of Twitter before they give up. Not every tweet is earth-shattering or important, but neither is everyday conversation. And that’s what Twitter is, an ongoing conversation between people of similar interests. That is why it is so important to only follow people who tweet content that you actually want to read. You know what I do when I find someone is clogging my tweetstream with things I’m not interested in? I unfollow them. It’s easy.

And in the spirit of conversation, tweets are short. People in general don’t rattle off a whole page of data when talking to other people; they speak a sentence or two, get a response, then speak again. So tweets are limited to 140 characters. Yet, if someone finds a blog post or news article that they think they’re followers might appreciate, it’s still possible to tweet the link – thus allowing for greater sharing within the character limit with a simple click of your mouse.

3. Twitter is not serious enough.

I recently read a blog post where a poet was bemoaning the death of poetry because people were tweeting poems. Again, seriously? There is just as much good and bad poetry as ever before; the internet just gives people a means to post their own work. I’ve read some poems in 140 characters that were quite beautiful, other’s terrible. And the ones the poet complained about? They were obviously joke tweets.

Yes, people joke on Twitter. Just like when you converse with other people. Not every conversation needs to be about political upheaval, the merits of Shakespeare, or how to write the Great American Novel. Grow a funny bone.

4. They complain it wastes too much time.

Like anything else, social networking can be taken too far. If you obsessively tweet and check your stream, if you let it interfere with your life to the point that you can’t get things done, then you might want to cut back. Twitter can be used for procrastination. Remember that proverbial watercooler that workers would gather around to chat, socialize, and use to avoid going back to work? Twitter is the net’s international watercooler. Use it to socialize, joke, learn new information, whatever you need to do… then get back to work. Don’t blame the watercooler because someone takes an hour and a half break to get a drink of water.

Most of the complaints I hear about Twitter stem from two things. 1. They don’t use Twitter, or 2. They don’t know how to use Twitter well. Give it a try or don’t, learn about it or don’t, but no matter what you decide, please don’t insult the people who enjoy Twitter. No one’s making you use it, and if you took the time to learn about it, I’m betting you would agree that Twitter has value – whether or not it’s valuable to you.

Sometimes immortality wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

*image courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

Play or download episode *here*

Hello, and Welcome to My Writing Niche, a podcast for new writers. Today’s podcast, #62, was recorded for Sunday, August 12th, 2012. I’ll be reading my latest #FridayFlash, “Sleeping Beauty Retold“,  as well as talking about my writing break and current projects.

**image courtesy of hiddedevries via Flicker.

***Slow Burn from the album Blues Sampler courtesy of Kevin MacLeod via Creative Commons Attribution license. More of his music can be found at FreeMusicArchive.org or at http://incompetech.com.

Long had the girl slept, cocooned within the thorny vines that embraced her castle. Long after the fairy curse had taken hold and forced upon her unnatural sleep, her parents and the other citizens of the kingdom had succumbed to the radiation that sickened humanity after the final World War. Toxic rain and poisoned water finished off those who had not died with the final deadly blast. Yet the princess Aurora slept on, immune by the unknown virtues of her curse.

The ship used its lasers to cut through the tangled vines, slicing a neat hole through the stones for its captain to enter. He stepped into the Earth’s past, sheltered and preserved by the briars that had gripped the castle like a skeletal fist. The light from the device he held lit his face in the darkened halls as he watched its monitor for signs of life. It pinged softly, each ping growing louder and closer as he strode the stairs of the castle’s tallest tower. By the time he reached the princess’s door, the noise had become a steady loud hum.

His large eyes widened as he pushed open the door to view the prone form of the girl, the last living woman on planet Earth. He pushed aside the dust covered canopy that surrounded her bed, gazing down at her beautiful features. Never had he seen a vision of such loveliness. Her long copper hair framed her face, like a Brillo pad around a worn bar of soap. Saliva dripped from the corner of her open mouth, from which the odor of her last meal was still apparent – seasoned by age. When he leaned closer, he smelled cumin.

Remembering his research, he bent over the girl and brushed her hair aside, planting a soft kiss upon her hard and cracked lips. He stood back and watched her struggle to open eyes that had been caked shut by years of sleep. One eye opened. She rubbed the other, which opened as well. Bleary eyed, she gazed upon her rescuer. “Whazza…whozit?” she mumbled, shaking off the sleep of decades. To her hero, her voice was the melody of the past.

He pressed some buttons on his device. The machine pinged once more, then translated his words into electronic clipped tones that Aurora would understand. “Welcome back to wakefulness, Princess. I have sought your resting place for many years. This is a very important discovery.”

The woman propped herself on elbows that popped audibly, then squinted into her benefactor’s large black eyes. “Huh?” She strained to focus on his face. Skin the color of ripe avocado, eyes that blinked slightly less often than she liked, and a large, bulbous head as hairless as a cue ball. If she was still dreaming, she figured she might as well play along. “Who are you?” she managed. Aurora ran her tongue across teeth that hadn’t been brushed in decades. She definitely needed a brush.

The little man pressed more buttons on the device. “My name is Zork, chief of Galactic History for Sector 42. You must accompany me to Zeta Prime where you will be questioned on Earth culture.”

The woman swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She gingerly tested each one until she stood on them both. “Wait a minute,” she said, reaching for a brush on the nightstand and attempting – without much success – to run it through her hair. “I read books, you know. I’m not going anywhere until I get my prince.” She glared down at Zork. The little man was waist-high. “Rules are rules.”

The little man’s skin darkened to a deep forest green. He tapped the device. “Our civilization has evolved beyond the feudal system of more primative sociopaths.”

Aurora backed away and gripped her brush. Dream or not, this still felt real.

Zork checked his device, then tapped again. “Apologies. More primative societies. There is, however, a Galactic President.”

The woman relaxed her grip on the brush. In her mind’s eye, solar systems did a slow waltz across galaxies which spun slow, lovely pirouettes. A thought struck her, shattering the image, and she blurted, “Beyond primitive so… so… so you don’t rule any land?”

The green creature looked at the ceiling a moment, then tapped again. The electronic voice chirped, “I own half of sector 42, which includes this solar system as well as several others.” He tapped, “This gives me exclusive historical excavation rights over said property. Is this sufficient to meet your requirements?”

Princess Aurora gazed down at her small saviour. Ruler of the whole freaking planet? A prince would be a step down. “Zork,” she said, smiling sweetly through taco-stained teeth. “Take me to your leader.”

Hand in hand, the two stepped aboard the shining craft. The saucer flew into the starry void.

*I’ve “retold” so many fairy tales that it’s hard to believe I’ve left this one alone this long. So I decided to destroy attempt a fresh take on this classic. Please, forgive me.

If that new janitor had neglected to wipe the lens properly again, Dr. Smith would have a fit.

*image courtesy of the Smithsonian Institution via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.